Unlikely Seduction
by Artemidora
Summary: Harry wakes up next to someone completely unexpected. MM/HP, post-Hogwarts.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I can't believe I wrote this.**

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The Boy Who Lived woke up one Sunday morning with sunlight streaming through the windows. _That's funny. My window doesn't face the sunrise_.

He opened his eyes and then hurriedly reduced them to a squint following the sun's assault on his retinas. Reaching across the bed for his glasses, he found that the sheets, too, were wrong. His hand touched cool satin instead of his usual cotton.

"Hey, Gin?" he whispered to his sleeping wife. The woman beside him stirred, rolled over and was immediately asleep again. Harry decided not to wake her, instead returning his thoughts to his present location. And why his bedroom was different.

_Oh, yeah._ He was at Hogwarts, he reminded himself as his mind slowly shook off its shroud of sleepiness. He was a visiting lecturer to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. He had come in every April, still well before exam time, for five years. Although with Ginny talking about starting a family, he thought, he may soon have to start coming less frequently.

So he was in his guest chambers. That made enough sense, he told himself, clearing his head of the remains of a now-distant dream, which, as he vaguely recalled, involved dancing and an emerald green gown.

But how had Ginny gotten here?

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the morning brightness, he ventured another glance at the woman snoozing in his bed. It was all he could do not to blurt a few choice expletives.

Dark hair.

He still wasn't sure who was lying next to him; all he knew was that it was definitely not his wife. The woman in question was facing away from him, so he slipped carefully out of bed and into his dressing gown while making his way to the other side. Before he could even see her face, he caught sight of square-framed glasses on the nightstand and stopped dead.

Not possible.

He proceeded on tiptoe, slowly, but desperate to prove his first thought wrong. His stomach dropped to his knees when he realized that the twisted raven tresses indeed belonged to a somewhat aged woman with dark eyebrows, a sharp nose, and... _Merlin's beard..._ a tartan nightgown.

-=-=-=-

**A/N: This will be four chapters long. Just a little ficlet – I have it all planned out, so it should all be up soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

Harry was frantic. He sped as silently as he could to the washroom, praying not to wake the dark-haired witch, lest an incredibly awkward situation arise. He latched the door firmly behind him with the smallest of pops, dropped his dressing gown and stepped into the shower. The memory of the previous night now poured over him at the same rate as the hot water.

Last night, Saturday night, was the day he was supposed to have gone home. He was lecturing for the week – it started off as one day five years ago, but time was always so short. So eventually Professor McGonagall decided that the world could spare the famous Harry Potter for a week while he made rounds to every Defense Against the Dark Arts class in the school; he was often invited to common rooms and even the library for rounds of questioning. The press he was less adept at dealing with; however, he could handle his celebrity in front of a bunch of teenagers.

Saturday came, and over breakfast, Filius Flitwick mentioned in passing that that very day was Professor Binns' birthday. No one knew how old he was, but the staff were rather keen on celebrating anyway. Over the course of the day, he was invited to the party by no less than four professors. Harry joked with himself that it was probably just to balance out the mean age of the guests; after all, he and Neville would be the only people under thirty there.

Although Binns had never been among his favorites, Harry decided to stay for the party. It was the least he could do for Neville, who was still rather awkward at social interaction, to be a supportive peer among elders. He would have to remember to ask about Neville's girlfriend – he imaged Neville was proud.

Harry had imagined that the party would be a chance for the staff to let their hair down. He didn't know how right he was.

He didn't know who had paid for the alcohol, but not a professor in sight failed to reap the benefits. The pumpkin punch was quite tasty, and although Harry was well aware of its intoxicating effects, he couldn't help but help himself to more. Besides, he didn't feel more than a buzz.

Yet.

Meanwhile, Minerva McGonagall had had quite a bit of Firewhiskey and was now chatting up nearly everyone in the room. Harry marveled at the discrepancy between her stern exterior and current countenance. He already knew that alcohol made her more outgoing and relaxed – one time, she had allowed Hagrid to kiss her cheek, and even let a giggle escape her lips! - but this was a level he had never seen before. Harry made his way over to her, smiling to himself at the witch he suddenly found quite alluring.

"Professor McGonagall –"

"Oh, please, do call me Minerva," she said lazily, her voice taking on more of a brogue than Harry recalled it having. "We're colleagues... of a sort." She paused.

"How were the lectures? I regret that I was unable to attend any..." Minerva trailed off, then looked up at Harry expectantly. He could see remnants of propriety in her as she peered at him.

"Well, yes, as you were teaching," Harry remarked, then smiled apologetically at his slight rudeness. Minerva didn't seem to notice, which in itself was a rarity. "I was planning to leave today, but I shall have to leave tomorrow around noon instead. I need to be home by evening."

Minerva smiled. "Ah yes, Ginny. How is she holding up? I'm so glad she went to play for the Harpies... something about women together, playing like that, just fascinates me," she slurred, somewhat incoherent. Harry had no idea what she meant by that. Was it possible that Minerva McGonagall fancied women? He shook the idea from his mind. The idea of his former professor having sexual interest in anyone was a bit much for him, at least at his current level of sobriety.

But as the night wore on, his sobriety – and the inhibitions that went with it – began to fade. He told Minerva of his friends' whereabouts. When he mentioned Ron and Hermione, whose wedding Minerva had attended, she grew animated once more, still delighted by her former star pupil. But then, much to his eternal embarrassment (not to mention that Hermione might have cast a Cruciatus Curse on him if she ever found out), he let it slip during his monologue that "Hermione has always fancied you," which, surprisingly, shocked his former Head of House. Harry had always thought it rather obviously deeper than academic admiration, but Minerva responded with a slight blush and loss of focus.

She apparently decided on something while lost in thought, because after only a few moments, she shook her head as if to clear it, then asked, "And you?" in a rather lower voice than usual. This was rather forward of her. Indeed, Harry had never had feelings for Professor McGonagall before then. But the suggestive tone in her voice, especially coupled with the seductive curve of her neck and matching raised eyebrow, suddenly installed a new thought in him.

Harry brushed off the question, instead leaning in to take another sip of his drink. Minerva used the opportunity of Harry being somewhat turned away to slip the pins from her hair. Her long, silky strands tumbled to her waist, and Harry's breath caught as he raised his head again.

He must have been more intoxicated than he felt, because the next thing he knew, his hands had found the back of her neck. "It's... really soft," he blurted stupidly.

Then he did the next most foolish thing. He tilted his head to the left and met her thin lips with his own.

In public.

Tipsy as she was, Minerva McGonagall was not going to stand for that. She broke the kiss after only a moment, stage-whispering, "If that is what you're after, we'll have to go someplace else." It sounded reasonable to her.

Neither of them knew who seduced whom. But the staff lounge was closer to Harry's temporary quarters than to the Headmistress' chambers. They had barely made it through the doorway when Harry re-entwined his fingers in his former professor's raven locks.

An hour later, a pair of contented sighs escaped their lips as the Boy Who Lived and the Headmistress of Hogwarts nodded off on opposite sides of the bed, finally feeling the sedative effects of the alcohol that had made their loveless union possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Does anyone really think I'm J. K. Rowling? Sorry to disappoint.**

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By the time Harry had cleansed himself, shaken out his hair, and fastened navy robes over his still-damp skin, Minerva McGonagall was awake. He spotted her sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea and a book as he exited the bathroom; he immediately feigned interest in the carpet in a vain attempt to hide his suddenly-pink cheeks from her sharp gaze.

"Mr. Potter." Her tongue was plain rather than acidic; nor was it questioning. There he was, and the fact that the two of them had matters to discuss was so apparent that Minerva didn't bother to steer the conversation.

Harry hesitated, then ventured, "I'm sorry." Whatever the Professor had been expecting, an apology had not been it. Her face held confusion for only a flicker of a moment, and words followed soon after.

"Truthfully, Pott– Harry – I don't remember much of the incident in question. I do not wish to assign blame for last night's events."

Harry's relief was not as profound as he had hoped it to be. Still, it was good to know that his former professor did not resent him for bedding her the previous night.

"Harry." Again, not a question, but still not bitter. Her tentative expression did not match the stern tone of her next question. "Do you wish for something more than friendship with me?" Surprised that he had not anticipated this question, Harry had to consider.

"Truthfully, Professor – "

"Minerva will do, after we've shared a bed."

"Minerva," he acquiesced. His speech accelerated. "Truthfully, I respect you loads, really, and I like being around you. I feel a lot of things for you; most important, admiration. But I don't think I fancy you. At least, I've never thought about you in this way before." He paused. "And I am hopelessly in love with Ginny," he concluded, not knowing what to expect.

"She deserves it," came her simple reply. Then she glanced away from him and out the window. Sighing, she told the Quidditch Pitch, "I'm an old woman. Far too old for you, Harry."

He couldn't suppress a wry smile. It was true.

The old witch, dark hair softening her usually severe features, continued, "While I admit that I hold you in the highest esteem, I have never hoped for anything beyond friendship either. It pleases me that you feel the same; otherwise, we would have had on our hands a very sticky situation indeed."

Harry believed her, but he also noticed an air of sadness about her. He knew she was hurt by the whole affair, but he couldn't identify the reason. His musings were curtailed as she stood abruptly and walked into a kitchen area behind him. Harry watched as Minerva put on a pot of tea and made four slices of toast with butter and marmalade.

Watching her former student take his place across the table, Minerva continued, "As this – relation – lacked real feelings toward each other, I advise you to do your best to put the incident behind you. I am not resentful or pining," she clarified, while Harry returned to his previous thoughts about her, "but I am quite sorry for allowing you to be unfaithful to your beloved. I wish you would not feel guilty."

Moved, Harry opened his mouth to respond before snapping it shut to finish chewing. After a swallow, he managed, with a weak smile, "Breakfast helped."

"I've no doubt of that, Potter. Thoughts are always clearer on a full stomach."

After Harry finished eating, Minerva gently reminded him of her intent to stay friends by washing up. Harry blushed at his own helplessness in the kitchen and resolved to write her once a month; she really was a valuable friend.

His gratitude for her in their mutual understanding overcame him, and he playfully wrapped his arms around her. Drying her hands, Minerva made to leave, saying something about him needing to pack. Harry caught her wrist reaching for the doorknob. Kissing her hand chastely, he held the door open.

He would get over his embarrassment.

Before lunch, Minerva McGonagall bade farewell to her first one-night stand in forty years. As Professor Flitwick tried in vain to help with Harry's luggage, the young Auror caught Minerva's eye and smiled. He shook hands with Professor Longbottom, thanked Flitwick for his help, and vanished down the road.

The Headmistress retired to her quarters.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: It's done. Let me know – I know a few of you had high hopes for the outcome. I doubt I'll ever write this ship again – it seems like a one-time deal for me.**

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It was not even noon, but Minerva's exhaustion had overcome her; she couldn't bear to drag herself to lunch. She changed back into her tartan dressing gown, determined to squeeze in a nap before her tea.

It was only after she had lain stiffly under the thick, fluffed comforter for ten minutes that she realized she was thinking too hard to fall asleep.

She hadn't lied to Harry. She had no desire to sleep with him again; in truth, she was glad that her inebriated state had wiped out the encounter's memory. Still, she felt a sting of rejection that had lain dormant in her for many years. And something else, much more familiar. So mundane, indeed, that it took an anomaly for her to recognize the feeling.

Minerva McGonagall was lonely.

As she pondered her solitary condition, she thought back to that morning's conversation with Harry. Suddenly, one thing he'd told her, punch-drunk, the night before, came to her. She remembered it with a vague shock, even a day later. "Hermione's always fancied you. Pity, you missed your chance."

It was difficult for her to imagine anyone, let alone a student, with a crush on old Minerva. Although she had been quite a handsome child (her cheeks flushed with pride as she recalled the cultivated beauty of her youth), two wars and a school full of adolescents had aged her. She wasn't frail yet, but she had developed more than a few wrinkles. From the reserved but tenderly intellectual child had grown a frigid, weary woman, full of unfulfilled dreams.

Her veins still held passion, but, having assumed that no one would want an old maid such as herself, she channeled it into hard work. She had done so for much of her teaching career. She wasn't hailed as the most powerful witch of her age for lack of talent, but she acknowledged in her private quarters that a suppression of a few carnal desires may have had a hand in her success as well. It had made her stiff.

The idea that someone would actually fancy her was laughable. Minerva cracked a smile.

Her thoughts wandered from Hermione's purported crush to the witch herself. For the first time, she found herself wondering about her former star pupil's sexuality. She had always seemed so ambiguous; much like herself. Books were Miss Granger's first love, and all humans came second.

All, that is, except for the youngest Mr. Weasley. In other ways, Minerva was proud of any comparison between them, but she was glad that her protégé would not become a lonely spinster like herself.

Minerva was long out of practice with women. Men were much easier to deal with, which was why she'd dabbled in them occasionally. But truly, her heart belonged to the fairer sex. It was the girl with the shaggy blonde fringe, so unlike her own, whom she had caught herself looking at during her third year, not the boy in front of her who always bent over too far and wore his trousers too low.

Not that she had always been aware of her preference. For such a clever girl, she took an exceptionally long time to notice her attraction to the female figure. Unlike Sybill; maybe her "Inner Eye" had told her in a dream at four years old.

Thinking of Sybill, the professor realized just how desperate for companionship she was. The two of them would never be soulmates, but another aged Sapphist to share her loneliness might just make her feel better. Taking up her favorite white quill, she extended her first sincere invitation to the shawl-draped woman, for supper the next night.

Then, having found a reprieve in hope, Minerva slept.


End file.
